In Good Faith
by ACleverName
Summary: For a Morbidity Contest eons ago. Christine made a promise Christine is a good girl


**In Good Faith**

"_One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity . . ." _–Erik, _The Phantom of the Opera _

Christine Daaé was a good girl. She kept her promises.

She had read the message in the _Époque, _which she and her husband still received, though they had began a tour of the Continent in the aftermath of Count Philippe's death.

Her husband placed a high value on honor, on keeping one's word—he had grown up considerably since their play-engagement. So, to Christine's surprise, he allowed her to do as she had promised. She wore the gold ring; they traveled by boat to Cherbourg; they took the train to Paris. In the greatest secrecy they took a hotel near the Opéra. Then, at night, bundled against the cold, she was driven to the Rue Scribe side. She had the key.

"Christine, you must allow me to accompany you." It must have pained him to say it.

She shook her head, firmly. "It can only bring you pain to relive such memories. It is my duty; I will discharge it. Wait for me."

"You'll do yourself an injury," Raoul persisted. "What if you are harmed? We should have asked the Persian to come with us."

"_He _asked me to do it, and no one else!" Christine snapped. Raoul drew back from her, perturbed. In the end, he had no choice.

She unlocked the gate. A boat was waiting for her. For a moment she must have thought him still alive. Then she dulled her mind to the monotonous task of rowing. Halfway across, she wished Raoul had come. She had never rowed across on her own.

Cold, sore, she made it to the house on the lake. Lights burned inside the windows. Surely there must be someone there? The Persian?

Despite herself, she knocked. There was no answer. There were footprints on the steps leading to the door, but they looked old. She pressed at the door, hesitating. It opened, and more than ever the interior of the house had a smell of death. He _must _be dead, then.

There were candles lit, not down to their stubs yet—someone had been there recently. The Persian had come—and left. Had he been called away suddenly? She moved through her old bedroom; it was stripped and bare. The trinkets had been removed, she had no idea where they had gone. The pantry was the same, but honestly she was glad not to add rotting food to the morbid bouquet.

She moved slowly toward Erik's room. There were lights beckoning her here, too, from underneath the partially-closed door. Everything was still. She felt anxious but not exactly afraid. She forced herself to go through the door.

This room was untouched. In the center was the glossy black coffin she had seen and been appalled by so many times. But it was curiously empty. Then she saw: Erik's body had been placed on a low, long table. She held her breath. He was dead. She took a few steps forward. His arms had been folded across his chest. Those tiny eyes deep in the dark sockets were closed. He neither smiled nor sneered in death. She stopped: he was not wearing his mask. And for once, she had not been frightened.

_That is what we will all look like, someday,_ she thought, hovering over the body. She got to her knees. A few tears fell, unbidden, down her fingers as she slipped the gold ring off. His hand was cold, dreadfully so, but no more than it was when he lived. She wept. She slipped the ring upon the yellowed finger. "Poor, poor Erik," she murmured. That was all she said.

She got to her feet and wiped her face with a handkerchief. How was she to get him into the coffin now? Even his emaciated frame was probably more than she could lift. And once in the coffin, where did she bury him? In the lake? In a proper grave? Why hadn't Erik made provisions for this?

She waited for the Persian to return. She thought of Raoul, waiting with the carriage, cold as she was. She looked at the coffin. It had always repulsed her before, but now she began to understand why Erik had kept it. It was a fate she herself would come to. She leaned over its yawning expanse, reaching in to touch the dull white fabric of the lining.

She had not thought, on further reflection, that Erik had really slept in it. It seemed as pristine as the day she had first seen it. She put her hand down into the bottom of it. It was surprisingly soft. She had always imagined it to be a rigid, uncomfortable thing. There was some kind of padding at the bottom. Christine began to weep again, faced with the certainty of death and how sad she would be to leave the Earth—even for Heaven, even to see her father and mother again. She leaned down further into the padding. The walls were high. Then she climbed in, knees first. Where was the danger? There was no lid; she would not suffocate. She turned herself over and lay with her arms crossed over her chest, mimicking the dead man above her.

She closed her eyes, breathing faster. She had felt Death—and it had not yet claimed her. She lay still for a minute more, resolving that she could not wait any longer for the Persian: she must go back, bring Raoul, and they would bury him together.

It had begun so slowly she had not at first noticed it. The coffin was sinking. She sat up quickly, just in time to see two doors closing over her head. The dais under the coffin had evidently sunk to a lower level, to be closed over by metal doors. She was in darkness. She screamed. She pounded her fists against anything solid.

She stopped screaming. This was Erik's provision for burial, then. The weight had triggered the device, the ultimate precaution against grave-robbing. She wasted no time weeping. The air would run out soon. She began to count off in her head five-minute intervals. After each one, she would scream in earnest. The Persian had to return, and she wouldn't make herself hoarse needlessly.

Raoul waited with the carriage until dawn. The Persian came to him then. It had been almost too late to save her.


End file.
